stocking the larder for Thanksgiving...As you may already know, I consider myself the consummate grocery shopper. I always do the weekly shopping on Sunday morning, early, usually get started before eight and have become accustom to the rather tranquil atmosphere of that day and time. The same crew of young fellows are stocking the fresh veggie and fruit bins, they always wave and say "hello"; The same crew mans the deli counter, they know what I want, if nothing else, we are somewhat creatures of habit, especially when it comes to our weekly containers of fresh pepper shooters and gourmet olives. I've become friends with the folks that work in the store on Sunday morning. They've become used to me, the way I dress and have gotten to know that, aside from what I look like, I'm basically harmless and usually a friendly and social sort. One of them calls me Ozzy, in a friendly way and I do my best Ozzy imitation every time I bump into him. It's fun.
I did the week's regular shopping on Sunday morning as usual this past weekend, but decided that I would make a special trip for the Thanksgiving dinner stuff, as I was planning on taking the whole week off, but ended up going into the office on Monday to unravel the situations our Asian affiliate got themselves into. I took off today as planned and went to the store around nine this morning. Let me tell you, being in that place at nine in the morning on Sunday and being there at nine in the morning today is like traveling to another world. And, not a nice one.
It was as crowded as you might think it would be on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, but, man alive, what a freak show. I usually don't give a second thought these days to going shopping in my usual attire of black on black, accented with black, and I seem, I think, to meld into the surroundings well on Sunday, but today I was awash in a sea of upper middle class moms with brat ass kids in tow, obnoxious employees and a rather good salting of what I deemed to be stoned old ladies.
The UMC moms were all pretty much attired in the same gigs; bright pink, baby blue or scarlet fluffy looking "jogging" pants (you know what I mean, don't you? those expensive, fitted models with the white strip down the legs that are more of a statement than the utility pants they're supposed to represent?) Anyway, they all seemed to have on either white leather coats or white fitted zip up hoodies, and expensive looking sneaker type footwear; pushing a cart ladened with thirty bottles of soda, boxes of powdered potatoes, tinned cranberry sauce, throw away aluminum turkey roasting pans, expensive cereal, six different kinds of cookies and a twelve pack of high priced, quilted type paper towels, all the while emitting the most annoying nasally sounds that I took for some sort of admonishment to their whiney, snot nosed, overly vocal and offensively active offspring, who were dressed in miniature LL Bean type clothing or Old Navy gear or whatever, scuttling about, knocking stuff on the floor, hanging on the cart, sneezing all over everything and generally making a good issue for stricter birth control efforts...
I would politely stand and wait as they blocked the aisles, taking every opportunity to make horrid faces at the little brats if one of them happened to notice I was there. I have to admit that, to little sheltered UMC kids, I probably look pretty scary, if not like death on holiday then at least like what their parents probably told them will come and get them in the night if they don't behave. It's fun. Sometimes they just stand there, mouths agape, not knowing what to do. I thinks it's the Billy Idol sneer that I've perfected over the years that gets them. Mwaaaahahahahah!
Anyway, enough about them, let's get on the stoned old ladies. These aren't the usual lot of elderly, polite folks that I run into on the Sunday morning excursions, these put me in mind of wealthy widows; dressed to the nines and made up like something from a Louis XIV nightmare, they wander the aisles like lost souls, stopping to stare at, always, the uppermost shelves, looking at nothing... I know they're stoned; not all of the late Mr.'s insurance money is being spent on fashion and groceries, me thinks... this crowd is keeping the Boodles Gin company afloat, I guarantee... I have to say that I spent a great deal of time studying them, they fascinated me so. Their carts were almost always empty. I few boxes of frozen veggies; some soap; maybe few other things. I think they were there out of habit, not necessity. Damned spooky. They are the exact opposite of the UMC brats; quiet, slow, touching nothing; just... looking. Creepy. Maybe they're just lonely, spending their last years doing what they did for all those years before, chasing a grocery cart up and down the aisles of the store every Tuesday morning while hubby was off killing himself making his fortune...
Well, needless to say, I did the deed, brought the stuff home and spent the day cleaning and making Stately Sad Old Goth Manor presentable for the influx of kith and kin expected on Thursday. It is a wonderful thing, this Thanksgiving time. Not as hectic as some of the other holidays, just get together, eat, drink, make merry. Watch some football, have some drinks. Make a late night cold turkey and dressing sandwich with mayo and a glob of home made cranberry sauce on some stale Wonderbread left over from the stuffing making venture. Candles alight. Bach on the turntable. Cat in your lap. All the kids home, where I know they're safe and sound.
Much to give thanks for...
Enjoy your own festivities as much as I shall enjoy ours and you'll be doing ok.
Be well. Give thanks.
pearls before swine...
